


Professional

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Doctor/Patient, Doctors & Physicians, Flirting, M/M, Minor Injuries, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are suggestions of silver against the doctor's temples, a kiss of pale against the deeper brown even though the other man’s face is all but unlined; Sakuraba supposes it must be a matter of the stress of the job aging the other past his years, or maybe he really is more than a dozen years older than Sakuraba, maybe it’s the smoothness of his skin that is misleading his estimation." Sakuraba gets an injury treated by a surprisingly attractive doctor and things get rapidly out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professional

By the time there’s a knock at the door of the examination room, Sakuraba has nearly steadied out his breathing.

He thought he would be fine. He’s seen doctors before, obviously, has even been to physical therapists in the course of recovering from minor injuries in the past. He knows from experience that the strain against the inside of his left knee is nothing particularly major; with a few exercises and a few weeks of easy practice to give the joint time to recover, he should be fine. It’s not fear for his recovery that has him so flushed and trembling with anxious adrenaline; it’s not even fear at all, except some distant concern for his own dignity that he’s afraid may be wholly lost by the time he makes it back out to the lobby.

“Sakuraba-kun?” The door eases open and the doctor -- Takami, is the name he gave when Sakuraba came in -- takes a half-step into the room. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Sakuraba says, or tries to say, except that the simple sound catches at the back of his tongue as he sees the attention behind the doctor’s glasses, as he takes in the elegant lines of the other man’s features and the sleek dark of his slicked-back hair. There are suggestions of silver against his temples, a kiss of pale against the deeper brown even though the other man’s face is all but unlined; Sakuraba supposes it must be a matter of the stress of the job aging the other past his years, or maybe he really _is_ more than a dozen years older than Sakuraba, maybe it’s the smoothness of his skin that is misleading his estimation. It hardly matters; what matters is that Sakuraba is prickling hot all over again as the doctor steps into the room, his skin flushing warm and his cheeks going self-consciously dark as Takami moves forward and eases the door shut behind him, and he really has to stop thinking about the other’s face when he has nothing over his hips but the thin sheet the doctor left for him to wrap around himself.

“Let me see.” Takami looks down at the clipboard in his hands, lifting the topmost sheet of paper to peer at the notes beneath. Sakuraba can see the weight of his eyelashes over the top of his glasses, can see the soft of his mouth purse into consideration at whatever he’s reading. “You’ve had this injury before?”

“Yeah,” Sakuraba says, and it sounds a little better this time, a little less like he’s strangling on the heat in his own throat. “It was on the other side, though, my right knee instead of the left.”

“I see.” The clipboard goes down, the doctor’s gaze comes up. Sakuraba’s heart skips in his chest. “Not a repeated strain, then.”

“No.”

“Good.” He takes a step forward, closing the minimal distance to the examination table; Sakuraba has to fight from reacting visibly, either to flinch back to a safer distance or lean in towards the warmth of the other’s body. He can smell something spicy in the air, maybe the suggestion of cologne; it hints at cedar, or vanilla, maybe, but when Sakuraba breathes in it’s gone like it was never there at all. “I’ll take a look at both sides, just to be thorough.”

“Right,” Sakuraba says, and then Takami’s hands are settling at his bare knees to push his legs apart. It’s hardly any distance at all, barely a handful of inches, but Sakuraba can feel the pressure run electricity all the way up his spine, can feel the thrill of sensation catch at his tongue until he has to close his mouth on the whimper of reaction that threatens to break free. Takami’s not looking at his face -- his attention is on his hands, on the open angle of Sakuraba’s legs -- but Sakuraba can feel himself blushing, his cheeks flushing to pink as he fights back the surge of heat trying to gain traction against his spine.

“Down here?” Takami’s thumb presses into the muscle just behind Sakuraba’s knee, the force certain but gentle enough that Sakuraba barely feels the first twinge of the unpleasant ache he’s been suffering from. He tenses at the discomfort and Takami’s hold eases immediately, his attention still on the angle of his hands at Sakuraba’s skin. “I see. You no longer have any pain on this side, is that right?” His other hand tightens, digging in against Sakuraba’s other knee, but there’s no hurt to join it, just the weight of pressure against muscle faintly reminiscent of a massage.

Sakuraba shakes his head and tries to clear his throat as inconspicuously as possible. “No, nothing.”

Takami nods. “That’s good.” His hands slide up, fingers curling in over the tops of Sakuraba’s knees, and then he’s moving higher, the weight of his thumbs marking out a line of heat along the inside of the other’s thighs. Sakuraba tenses, his legs flexing involuntarily at the friction of the touch dragging up over his skin, but Takami is still talking, speaking in a low, soothing range that Sakuraba can feel purr all down the length of his spine.

“I’m just making sure there’s no other pain along the remaining connective tissue or of the supporting muscles. Does any of this hurt?”  
“N-no.” Sakuraba can feel his throat working around strain on every breath; Takami’s touch is nearly at his hips, now, and he might be fighting back his arousal but he knows he’s not winning completely, even if he’s not yet tenting the cloth over his hips. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” Takami’s hands drag higher, the cloth covering Sakuraba’s legs sliding up against his wrists, and Sakuraba can feel the chill of the air slide in the wake of the motion, can feel his balls tense at the cool of it as his cock twitches at the movement. The fabric catches against him for a heartbeat, clings momentarily; and then it slides free, and Sakuraba can’t help the reflex that tips his chin down to see what the doctor is seeing.

He’s not totally hard yet. It’s the only relief he feels, and that only momentarily, because he’s definitely not soft either, the weight of his cock is clearly in the process of filling in the juncture of his thighs. Takami’s hands are still against his legs, his thumbs still braced just shy of Sakuraba’s balls, and his chin is dipped down, his gaze still fixed in the space between his hands. There’s a heartbeat of a pause, just enough time for Sakuraba to be absolutely sure Takami has seen the arousal swelling in his cock; and then Takami is sliding his hands back down Sakuraba’s legs, and Sakuraba shuts his eyes and wishes desperately to find a way to evaporate to the heat burning crimson across his cheeks. He’s sure Takami will pull his hands away, will step back and turn away to give Sakuraba a moment to cover himself, and this is easily the most embarrassing experience of his life, he’s sure, he’ll never be able to come back--and then Takami’s hands are coming back up, tracing out over their initial path again, and Sakuraba chokes on a whimper of absolute shock in the back of his throat.

“You’re very sure?” Takami asks. He’s still not looking at Sakuraba’s face; he could be watching the drag of his fingers across Sakuraba’s thighs, he could be watching the twitch of heat that runs through Sakuraba’s cock as his fingers skim dangerously close again, Sakuraba can’t tell and isn’t sure he wants to know. “No pain anywhere along here?”

Sakuraba shakes his head. He can’t trust his voice to obey, can’t be sure he won’t choke on the affirmative. His thighs are trembling, now, the shivering movement wholly beyond his control.

“Sakuraba-kun?” Takami asks again, and he looks up, then, bringing the dark of his gaze to focus on Sakuraba’s face. His mouth is perfectly level, his expression utterly calm, but there’s something shadowed behind his eyes, something only half-hidden by the lenses of his glasses. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Sakuraba swallows hard. He can feel his cock swelling hotter between his legs. “No,” he manages, sounding only half as strangled as he feels.

“Good,” Takami says, and looks down again. Sakuraba risks a glance: he’s fully erect now, his cock straining towards the tremble of adrenaline in his stomach, and Takami is staring right at him, the focus in his eyes unmistakably trained on the curve of Sakuraba’s cock. Sakuraba whimpers again, a tiny breathless moan in the very back of his throat, and when Takami’s hands draw back down his knees cant wider of their own accord, his thighs spreading themselves into an invitation for the piercing focus of the other’s eyes. Takami’s gaze drops, his lashes shifting as he blinks, and this time when his hands draw up his palms slide too, coming in to drag against the inside of Sakuraba’s thighs instead of across the top of them.

“Lean back, please,” Takami says, his voice even and steady, and Sakuraba does, letting his weight tip back against the support of his elbows on the examination table. He could go farther -- there’s the angle of the table to support him, a pillow at the far end to encourage him to lie flat -- but he can’t draw his attention away from Takami’s face, can’t look away from the considering stare the other is giving to the open angle of his legs. Takami’s hands push gently, urge Sakuraba’s knees wider, and Sakuraba lets his legs spread as wide as they can go, until he can feel the strain threatening in the joints of his hips.

“Still no pain?” Takami asks without looking up.

Sakuraba takes a breath, feeling the air turn to steam in his chest as Takami considers him, as the cool air of the room brushes across his flushed cock, his exposed entrance.

“No,” he manages, gasping the word into a strange, breathless almost-moan in the back of his throat.

“That’s good,” Takami says. His thumbs slide under Sakuraba’s thighs and against the curve of his ass, tightening for just a moment; the pressure draws Sakuraba’s body clearer into view, tenses against his entrance for a moment, and he can’t help the way he whimpers at the sensation of it, at the secondhand friction from Takami’s fingers on his skin. He can see Takami swallow, can see the motion in his throat, but: “Stay like that for a moment,” is all the other says before he draws his hands away and turns to the counter in the corner.

Sakuraba can feel all his skin burning with heat. The cool air is making it impossible to forget how exposed he is, laid open across the examination table like he’s making an offering of himself for the doctor’s gaze and touch. But he’s still hard, he’s harder than he’s ever been, and Takami hasn’t even touched him except to drag his fingers up over the muscle in Sakuraba’s thighs. He can see the line of the doctor’s shoulders, can see the shift of his coat as his moves, and then Takami’s turning back with a glove on one hand and Sakuraba shudders through his entire body with anticipation.

Takami steps close, his hips fitting into the space between Sakuraba’s knees; there’s the whisper of friction, a suggestion of fabric ghosting against Sakuraba’s skin, and then his hand is at the other’s hip and the immediacy of the contact eclipses everything else in Sakuraba’s head. Takami’s fingers slide high, the inside line of his thumb and forefinger settling against the line of Sakuraba’s hip, and when he tightens his hold it feels like he’s bracing Sakuraba for a force, like he’s pinning him down to the examination table.

“Please try to relax,” he says, and then there’s cool against Sakuraba’s skin, the slick glide of gloved fingertips across his entrance. Sakuraba shudders again, his body tensing involuntarily, but Takami doesn’t push inside him; he just touches, his fingers tracing against the tension of Sakuraba’s body like he’s mapping the surface. His head is still down, Sakuraba can’t see where he’s looking, if it’s at the drag of his fingers or the tremor in Sakuraba’s thighs or the dark flush staining his cock. The latex of the gloves is warming, the thin layer between them going hot with body heat from both sides, and then Takami braces his thumb and middle finger and curls his index finger to slides the first knuckle into the grip of Sakuraba’s body. Sakuraba jolts, his whole body seizing tight against the friction, and Takami reminds him to “Relax” with that same calm as his touch slides deeper. Sakuraba can feel the stretch at his entrance, can feel the faint burn of the intrusion sliding into him, but there’s heat flickering up his spine, fire pooling low in his abdomen like Takami’s touch inside him is flame itself. Sakuraba chokes on an inhale, gasps for air, and Takami’s finger presses against the inside of his body and something explodes into white behind his eyes, his body convulsing in an unavoidable surge of response.

“Good,” Takami says, his voice sounding distant past the ringing of heat in Sakuraba’s ears. “Still no pain?”

“No--” Sakuraba starts, and Takami’s finger pushes against him and his eyes roll back, his spine arching with the force of the heat that rushes through him. “ _Ah_.”

“Excellent,” Takami says, and then he starts moving, drawing his fingertip in tiny circles like he’s coaxing electricity into Sakuraba’s veins. Sakuraba’s legs are shaking, his vision is hazed; he can’t catch his breath, can’t even think to wonder at how hard he is, at how slick with precome his cock is going. Every breath is a gasp, every exhale a whimper, and Takami isn’t letting him recover, he’s pushing harder instead of pulling away. Sakuraba’s chest strains for air, his cock twitches for his stomach; and Takami’s finger slides out of him, the loss so abrupt Sakuraba groans at the sudden removal. His body aches, the faint burn of Takami’s touch replaced with the unpleasant sense of emptiness; he tips his chin down to see what the other is doing but he can’t see anything past the dark of his cock stiff between his legs.

“What--” he starts, and Takami cuts him off, speaking smoothly: “Just relax, please,” as he pushes in at once, sinking his middle finger into Sakuraba along with the first. Sakuraba tenses at the stretch, feeling the burn radiating discomfort into his veins; and then Takami’s fingers are back where they were, and he has a moment of stomach-dropping premonition before they tense, and press against him, and everything flares to white again. Sakuraba’s head goes back, his throat straining to support the weight of his head, but he can’t keep it upright; his breathing has gone hot in his chest, his exhales warbling to helpless moans guided by the motion of Takami’s fingers, and he can’t close his mouth to stop them. His legs tense, try to close to gain more friction, but there’s Takami between his knees, the resistance of the other’s body holding his legs apart; when Sakuraba’s body quivers with sensation his legs tighten hard at the doctor’s hips, the strength of his effort spent against the solid weight of the other’s body. Takami is moving faster, pushing harder, and Sakuraba’s going dizzy with the heat, his cock is straining against the rumpled edge of the cloth around his hips. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his balls, pulsing hard against Takami’s touch; and then everything shatters around him, all the tension in his body collapsing to a sudden rush of heat. His legs tense, his cock twitches; he’s spilling spurts of come over the cloth rumpled over his stomach, he’s moaning hot helpless sounds in the back of his throat, his body is clenching hard against the width of Takami’s fingers inside him. He can feel each pulse of pleasure, can feel the accompanying jolt as Takami’s touch pushes against him, and there’s still that hand at his hip, the steady force of Takami’s hold the only thing left to pin him to reality in the midst of his convulsive orgasm.

It takes Sakuraba a few minutes to collect himself. He’s still gazing at the ceiling, blinking hazy heat up at the pattern of the acoustic tiles overhead when Takami eases the pressure inside him and carefully slides his fingers free. Sakuraba jolts with the friction, his body trembling with aftershocks like a memory-echo of pleasure, but the removal is a relief this time, the faint ache of emptiness bearable instead of nearly-painful as it was before. Takami draws his hand away from Sakuraba’s hip and takes a step back and away as he turns towards the counter again. Sakuraba struggles to upright, cold embarrassment filtering into his veins on the heels of pleasure; Takami strips the glove off his hand and casts it into the trash before he reaches for a cloth instead. Sakuraba can feel himself blushing, all his skin going to flaming self-consciousness at coming around his doctor’s fingers and guilt at what’s just happened, and then Takami turns back around and the ramble of Sakuraba’s inner monologue goes silent as he looks down at the front of Takami’s slacks.

“You’re not in pain, are you?” Takami asks, his voice still that same professional calm that it has been all along, as if he’s not so hard Sakuraba can see the shape of his cock pressing against the front of his pants. He reaches out for Sakuraba’s knee, braces his legs open for a moment as he presses the damp cloth against the other’s skin; even his touch is careful, gentle and deliberate as Sakuraba stares at the front of his slacks, wishing for the nerve to reach out and press his palm against the shape of Takami’s cock on the other side of the fabric. Takami tugs the sheet free of Sakuraba’s hips, fits the cloth in his hand against the few droplets that spilled against the head of the other’s cock instead of onto the cover; Sakuraba jolts at the sensation, his legs tensing involuntarily, but Takami’s touch is gentle, bearable even against the oversensitive skin of his easing erection.

“No,” Sakuraba finally manages, his attention skidding between the dark focus of Takami’s eyes on his skin and the outline of Takami’s cock against his slacks. “No, I’m not hurt, I’m fine.” His voice is strange, cracked and straining faintly on the vowels like he’s losing his breathing, but the words come out clearly enough.

Takami glances up at him. For a moment his eyes are fixed full on Sakuraba’s face; for a moment Sakuraba can’t remember how to breathe.

“Good,” he says, and then he pulls away, turning back to the counter to set the cloth down before reaching for the laptop set on the far side of the desk.

“I’m going to schedule you for a follow-up appointment,” he says without turning around. Sakuraba reaches for his clothes, folded and set aside before Takami came back in, and starts to pull them back on while the doctor’s attention is elsewhere. “Please avoid your standard practice for the next week; arm exercises are fine. Ice the injured knee daily.”

“Right,” Sakuraba says. “I will.”

There’s a pause; then: “Sakuraba-kun,” as Takami continues to consider the computer screen. Sakuraba looks up from pulling his underwear back on but Takami isn’t looking at him; he’s gazing at the screen, his eyes visibly unfocused and his mouth set into something unreadable and tense. Sakuraba can see him take a breath before he goes on. “If you would like, I could schedule you with my colleague for your follow-up.” Takami looks up from his laptop; his mouth goes soft, his eyes go dark. “He’s an excellent physical therapist, I’m sure he’d be able to see to your injury as well as I could.”

Sakuraba has to take a moment to find his breath. When he does it comes out shaky, the words quavering in his throat; but his skin is hot, his heart beating hard against his ribcage like it’s demanding use of his voice, and he finally manages: “Are-are you not available next week, Takami-san?”

Takami blinks, a flutter of dark lashes behind his glasses before he lifts a hand to adjust the frames. “I have quite a bit of availability, as it turns out.” His hand falls, his glasses go clear; for a moment he’s staring straight at Sakuraba, their gazes locked. “If you would prefer to continue seeing me.”

Sakuraba’s heart is pounding. “I would,” he says, the words tasting like heat on his tongue. “Please. If I could.”

Takami ducks his head. “Certainly.” He reaches for his glasses again and clears his throat. “I’ll get you on the schedule right away.”

His tone is still perfectly calm, as unshakeably professional as it has been. But when he smiles the warmth at his lips touches his eyes to turn them soft, and dark, and sweet as chocolate melting against Sakuraba’s tongue.


End file.
